


Within

by Lamey



Category: Splatoon
Genre: Gen, In which I wax poetic about the funny squid game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23489161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamey/pseuds/Lamey
Summary: I've been for some timeLooking for someoneI need to know, nowPlease tell me who I amDedf1sh is lost. She can't even remember her name. It is - to say the least - a major vibe killer.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	Within

**Author's Note:**

> I got a lot of headcanons about how Dedf1sh speaks and processes emotion. She only does one of those here - but I hope you like me popping off about the funny DJ octopus.

It was cold. Or, maybe she was cold - she'd long since lost track of which was which. It didn't bother her, of course. The temperature didn't mess with the acoustics; and the acoustics in here were amazing as ever. That was one perk of being lost deep within this labyrinth. No matter what she bumped over her speakers, it sounded amazing when it filled nigh-endless passageways with infectious rhythm. Rarely did she have an audience. The times she saw another living - or, "living" - thing down here were few and far between; but that was no matter. Even if music was meant to get people up and dancing, it had other purposes.

Adjusting the long-defunct hypno shades on her face, DJ Dedf1sh placed a clammy hand on her turntables, fiddling with dials and switches until she found just the right settings to suit her mood. Her process was meticulous, as dissonant and nasty as her music could sound. Each track was very carefully assembled to capture a specific mood, or elicit a certain response. It took careful craftsmanship to adequately express what she was feeling. One track could take weeks to complete, only to be bumped through endless tunnels to find an audience that was nebulous at best. But, again, the audience did not _entirely_ matter - it was all about expressing those very specific feeling.

Where to start? She supposed all great songs started with a great beat. With her heart having long since stopped beating, she was without her natural drum to lead the way - but she could still hear something in her head. She wasn't picking up on a melody, though. No adequate hook to sink into the listener's ears and force them to stay invested. Was she shot for ideas? Not necessarily; there was a lot bouncing around in her head, she just couldn't put the right pieces together in the moment. Perhaps it would be easier to build this track off a sample? It made sense to her - she'd always been proud of her ability to get inventive with her sampling, anyway. By borrowing just a snippet of another artist's work, she could elevate her new track to the next level.

Silent and stonefaced as ever, she reached into a small, tattered cloth bag beside her turntables - a ratty old thing full of assorted wires, loose screws, spare parts, and what she was actually looking for: CDs. There were discs here from various artists she admired back home... not that she remembered where home _was,_ necessarily. But which of them would suit her mood for tonight? She'd already mangled a classic Squid Squad piece - she was very proud of that one. The Squid Sisters were sacred, she wouldn't dare touch their work unless she knew she was about to spin solid gold. She quietly rifled through disc after disc, until one particular album leapt out at her, making her freeze for just a moment. Quietly, she picked up the case, and set it carefully on her turntables.

It wasn't an official record under any label - clearly just something the artist herself had recorded at home and burned onto a blank disc. It was a limited EP; something the artist must have intended to show off to friends, critics, and potential buyers. The tracklist was short and heartfelt, the album cover cluttered and clearly edited with a home computer. The cover stood out to Dedf1sh, leaving her staring in silent contemplation for a few moments.

...That _was_ her, wasn't it?

The name "DJ DEDF1SH" sprawled against the top of the album cover was a dead giveaway, sure; so were all the little features of the Octarian posing on the cover. The hair, the shades, the hat, the headphones - that was her. That was Dedf1sh. Of course, there were some differences. Her outfit was totally different, and her skin was not the familiar shade of sickly green she'd grown accustomed to. Most notable, though, was the look on her face in the photo. She wore a proud, boastful smile - one clearly very proud to show off her long, razor-sharp fangs. She couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled like that - or feeling like that, or taking the photo, or... anything. There were a lot of things she couldn't remember.

Quietly, she put one hand on the album cover, running a single finger beneath the photo's face. She then brought her other hand to her own face, dragging the corners of her mouth up with two fingers. Alas, this didn't accomplish nearly the same effect as the photo did, leading her to quickly drop her mouth back into its typical, permanent deadpan. For just a moment, she sat in the silence, staring down at the stationary image in front of her.

It felt, almost, like she was on the wrong side of a funhouse mirror. _She_ was the twisted reflection - the gross parody of the stationary image staring back at her; an image that she couldn't even put a name to, no matter how hard she tried. Whenever she attempted to recall who she was, aside from _a musician_ who _heard a life-changing song and wanted to broaden her horizons,_ it felt like she was wading through an ocean of molasses. The harder she paddled, the more it felt like she was drowning.

This was getting overwhelming fast. Confronting this internal conflict always ended the same way. She'd see something, or feel a vague trace of a connection in her head. She'd try to remember, with every ounce of willpower she had, and she'd fail miserably. Then she'd break down, but without a proper cathartic release. That same ocean of molasses keeping her from remembering who she was kept her from properly processing her emotions, too. No matter how badly she wanted to cry, or scream, or sob, or beg, nothing ever escaped her - save for the occasional sharp breath, or subtle tremor. She was stuck - silent, cold, and inexpressive; doomed to remain in place, and serve her singular purpose: the one thing she remembered about herself, and held on to dear life, as if it too would leave her if she let her guard down for even a moment.

All she could do was play her music.

...All she could do was play her music.

With emotions building up, demanding a release that would not come, Dedf1sh shoved the EP off of her turntables. She booted up her editing software of choice on her laptop, and hunched over it, feverishly composing. There was not a moment of rest for her. She put ideas together as they came, cobbling together a droning, solemn melody with a sharp, slow, knocking beat. These were complimented by a string section - something she hadn't considered before. But the haunting sound it provided was exactly what she was looking for - something that _excellently_ captured the feel she hoped to achieve with this track.

After hours of tireless work, the track was complete. It was much shorter than others she'd recorded - but that didn't matter. It achieved its goal. As soon as she hit play on the completed track, flooding the facility with the slow, solemn, eerie beat, she felt... something. It wasn't exactly like she cried, no - she couldn't entirely remember what that felt like. But with all the emotional turmoil she was forced to endure, it was still close enough. It was the best - and only - form of cathartic release she had, with the added benefit of making for some incredibly killer music. If there was one thing she'd never doubt, it was her own skill as a musician.

Aside from a "#0," this was the eighth track she'd recorded since waking up down here. So, she aptly titled it "#8 regret."


End file.
